


What Hands Do

by harborshore



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Canon Compliant, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-26
Updated: 2013-07-26
Packaged: 2017-12-21 11:27:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 723
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/899754
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/harborshore/pseuds/harborshore
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>On love and other impossibilities. Or: Enjolras finds out Grantaire does know how to believe.</p>
            </blockquote>





	What Hands Do

**Author's Note:**

  * For [acchikocchi](https://archiveofourown.org/users/acchikocchi/gifts).



“Who was that?” Enjolras asks after the woman leaves Grantaire’s rooms. Her short hair and austere clothing is unlike anyone he has ever seen Grantaire with before. 

Grantaire grins. “Oh, I’m greatly enamored,” he says easily. “Absolutely filled with adoration, etcetera. She believes in God and the King; I, as you well know, believe in nothing at all. Clearly Fate has chosen to bring us together.”

“I thought—“ Enjolras says, but doesn’t quite know how to continue. He feels certain Grantaire is in jest, but there is a particular light in his eyes.

“Never fear, o valiant leader,” Grantaire says, inclining his head. “I’m not about to quit my attendance at your evenings of revolutionary rhetoric and drink, I enjoy them far too much. That is, in fact, what I told Félicie – isn’t it a lovely name? – I mean, rather, that I didn’t agree with her about His Royal Majesty and the so-called God-given right to rule.”

“That doesn’t sound like a man believing in nothing,” Enjolras says, because he knows how to spot one of his openings in their ever-ongoing dialogue. 

“Well, she is wrong,” Grantaire says. “Bright and a joy to argue with, but very wrong indeed. You, well, you’re not wrong about the state of things but you expect far too much of people. Rising up against tyranny may be the right thing to do, but do I actually believe you’ll be able to stimulate the people into looking further than their next loaf of bread? Not – no.”

“So her side will win out, then,” Enjolras says, willing Grantaire to argue against him. 

“I don’t know, Apollo,” Grantaire says, and there’s something bleak in his eyes. That, at least, is familiar. “I fear her faith and the faith of others like her may prove too strong to overcome with only the apathy and abject poverty of our fellow man to sustain us, and yet I find myself wanting to save her for our losing side, because she believes.”

“You care for her that much?” Enjolras says, in lieu of responding to “our losing side”. At least Grantaire aligns himself with them, now, even if he persists in thinking they must lose. 

“I care for her kind,” Grantaire says. “I may not care about much, or anything at all on most days, but I cannot help but see how deeply she feels and loves and, well. She loves in a way she shouldn’t, and I sympathize.” He swallows, and adds, “I’m not talking about the king, Enjolras.”

Enjolras is a blind fool, because there it is, the look in Grantaire’s eyes that is always there for Enjolras alone, but he has never realized what it meant before.

“It may be forbidden,” he finds himself saying, and falters, unable to finish the sentence. But even his false start kindles a light in Grantaire’s eyes.

“Do I dare—“ he says softly, then shakes his head. “It is near noon and I haven’t yet had a meal, I must be hearing things. But be kind, Enjolras, don’t disabuse me of my impossible notions just yet.”

Enjolras extends a hand. “If you can admit to caring about anything at all,” he says, and somehow this isn’t so difficult, “isn’t it a day for impossible things to happen?” 

Grantaire takes his hand with trembling fingers and brings it slowly to his lips, kissing Enjolras’ palm softly. Enjolras clasps Grantaire’s hand, bringing their palms together.

“Holy kisses,” Grantaire says, his smile slightly strained. 

“Stop quoting the English,” Enjolras says, because he can’t find a way to say what he actually means. Grantaire always did manage to rob him of his eloquence at inopportune moments. So he pulls Grantaire close, because it isn’t holy kisses that he wants, nor does he desire such an ending. He tilts Grantaire’s face up with his free hand. 

Grantaire’s gaze is full of wonder, but he attempts a smirk nonetheless: “Putting me where you want me?” 

“Only if you want to be here,” Enjolras says. “You don’t have to accept or bear anything you don’t want.”

“How could I deny you?” Grantaire murmurs, and Enjolras is concerned about that, how Grantaire can deny him nothing. But he kisses him anyway, because Grantaire wants it, they both want it, and Enjolras could deny Grantaire nothing right now, so maybe it isn’t so bad.

**Author's Note:**

> [Félicie de Fauveau](http://www.musee-orsay.fr/en/events/exhibitions/in-the-musee-dorsay/exhibitions-in-the-musee-dorsay-more/article/felicie-de-fauveau-33787.html?tx_ttnews%5BbackPid%5D=649&cHash=8763f1928a) was a sculptress contemporary with the Amies, but on the Royalist side of the conflict. She never married and had rather intense friendships with women; make of that what you will.


End file.
